Defined
by myheartisyours0523
Summary: Dave doesn't want to be defined as a "friend". Kurt won't define him any other way.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Glee. :(**

**Please review...it helps with extrinsic motivation.**

* * *

There was that weird feeling in his gut.

That twisting. Wrenching, he once heard Kurt say.

That incredibly uncomfortable tightness in his core, like someone had reached down his throat and grabbed his intestines.

Sometimes it was like someone had opened an entire jar of butterflies into his stomach, and they fluttered around, making goosebumps erupt on his muscled arms.

He preferred the second, because it meant Kurt had looked at him. That he had spared a soft glance, or glare, or terrified look.

But it was usually the first, the agonizing, gut-wrenching, terrible distortion.

Because usually, Kurt wasn't looking at him. He wasn't sparing a glance, he wasn't paying attention. Usually, he was laughing (he had a pretty laugh) at something Finn said. Usually, he was staring at the screen of his phone, his lips pulled upward into an affectionate smile.

Usually, Kurt was too busy, too important, too amazing, to be looking, noticing, to care, about him.

So, usually, he walked around with his heart in his throat, with a fist clutching his vital organs, with his jaw clenched unhappily.

And one day, he just couldn't live like that anymore.

So, one day, he decided to shove the kid with his shoulder.

One day, he knocked that phone out of Kurt's hands.

One day, he finally got Kurt to _notice _him.

He just hadn't expected Kurt to run after him. He hadn't expect retaliation; didn't Kurt understand why he was doing it, why he absolutely _had _to shove Kurt around?

How he had to, somehow, feel Kurt's body against his, had to have Kurt's teal eyes bore into his?

Was Kurt really _that _blind? _  
_

Because suddenly, Kurt was shouting. Shouting about homophobia, shouting about how simple he was, how ignorant.

He felt so many different emotions bubbling up inside him, crawling up his throat, compressing his heart. Any second, any second, he was going to explode.

And then Kurt was near him. Kurt was close. Kurt's chest was nearly pressed against his, the warmth of his flushed face and biting words brushed over him.

Kurt's teal eyes were _flashing_.

So, really, he thought that no one could blame him for doing what he did.

No one could blame him for lunging forward, for capturing Kurt's hot lips with his, for letting seven years of lust and hurt and something like _love _drain out into his kiss.

He clung to Kurt's face, his fingers smoothing over that soft porcelain skin, and tried, with every fiber of his being, to memorize everything.

To remember the taste of Kurt's lips, the heaving of his small chest, the smell of his coconut shampoo.

And then, he was shoved away.

He hadn't been surprised; someone as wonderful, as beautiful, as _perfect_ as Kurt wouldn't take well to being mauled on the fly.

The countertenor had pressed a hand to his lips, his teal eyes wide with shock (and revelation?).

Kurt really hadn't known.

He bit the inside of his cheek. He realized, suddenly, that he didn't regret it.

He didn't regret kissing Kurt.

Because all that emotion, all that locked up intensity, was gone.

Because it had all exploded onto Kurt's lips.

He felt lighter.

Free, almost.

Except for the way Kurt was looking at him. Like he was a monster, like he had done something wrong.

So, he punched the locker, let out a strangled type of roar, and left.

And that was that part that he regretted the most.

* * *

"Dave."

He looked up. "Yeah?"

"You're supposed to be _taking _the test, not staring at it." His English teacher looked like a mixture of Mick Jagger and Patti Smith. He looked back down in order to keep his composure.

"Sorry." He rolled his pencil through his fingers and flipped the first page over.

Multiple choice.

_What symbolism did the author achieve by showing the..._

He stopped reading. It was useless. Dave had never been good at English. In sixth grade, he'd gotten a 54% on his report card.

His eyes traveled, sweeping around the room. Most of the people around him were scribbling furiously at the paper, pencils moving at a rapid pace.

Kurt was one of them.

Dave could tell, even from the good 30 feet between them, that his letters were neat and swooping, even at the brisk rate that he wrote. His teal eyes were locked professionally on his test, and his scarlet scarf was tossed carefully over his shoulder in order to keep it out of his face. His forehead was creased slightly, as though the brain behind it was working incredibly hard to form the answers.

Dave looked away, his cheeks burning.

Because, honestly, who noticed things like _forehead creases_?

He rubbed at his temple and stared back at the first question for the second time.

But his eyes refused to stay up; they drifted upward.

But this time, when they landed on Kurt, the countertenor was staring back. Dave just about peed his pants; he managed an evil scowl, a quiet glare, but Kurt's profile was blank.

Like he was just..._looking_.

Dave felt like he was being examined under a telescope.

Like Kurt could see right through his dirty look, like he had found a window into Dave's thoughts.

Like Dave was transparent, and everything in his heart was exposed.

And then, the bell rang.

Dave glanced down. He hadn't answered a single question. His teacher snatched the paper away from him and let out a long sigh that seemed to echo. Dave swore he heard Kurt scoff.

Which, if he was being honest with himself, hurt him more than it should have. So he opened his mouth and managed evenly, "I was wondering if I could have someone help me in this class? Tutoring or whatever?"

The teacher looked surprised, but nodded.

When Dave spared a short look in Kurt's direct, the countertenor was gone, his seat empty. "I know Kurt is the best at English stuff. Maybe he could...?"

"We'll see, Mr. Karofsky." She regarded him with an unturned nose; Dave recognized the look. It was the I'm-about-to-do-you-a-favor-even-though-you-don't-deserve-it look.

So he grabbed his nearly empty backpack, bit the inside of his cheek, and wished to God that he hadn't just made the worst mistake ever.

* * *

Kurt was tapping out a steady rhythm against his notebook paper with his forest green pencil.

One eyebrow was raised slightly higher than the other; his bangs were pushed perfectly into place.

His teal eyes were traveling carefully across his face, searching the blushing plains for something.

What, Dave wasn't exactly sure.

He shifted anxiously in his seat and took a glance at his watch. 3:15.

For the last fifteen minutes, Kurt hadn't uttered a word.

And Dave really couldn't take it anymore.

"Why'd you agree to help me?" Kurt's pencil halted; Dave dropped his eyes to the wood table. There was a little cough, like he was clearing his throat to begin a long, dramatic story, and Dave couldn't help but look up, eyes locking onto the countertenor's full lips.

"First of all, I'll be receiving fifteen extra points on my end-of-year grade." His voice was like a symphony; Dave's ear pricked, taking in every word. "Tell me you wouldn't take any challenge for that much extra credit."

"I would." Dave's eyes flicked upward, meeting Kurt's for a split second before he lost his nerve and looked away again.

"And second, you looked pathetic today in English. I'm a sympathetic person."

Dave lifted an eyebrow. "Thanks a lot, Hummel."

If Dave wasn't mistaken (which, when it came to Kurt, he'd only been once), the small beginning of a smile tugged at the corner of his bottom lip. "I'm also an honest person."

"Obviously."

"But this doesn't mean I forgive you."

Dave stuffed his hands into his letterman jacket and looked down at his converse-clad feet. Kurt's pencil started tapping again. He clamped his lips together and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something like, "I'm sorry, it was all because I'm in wholeheartedly in love with you and you never _noticed _me because you're perfect and beautiful and everything I've ever wanted".

"Especially," Kurt accentuated, "the shoving. The slushies. The things you did to my friends."

He didn't mention the kiss. Dave felt relief shudder through him.

Because he thought that his heart might have broken into a million pieces if Kurt had mentioned the kiss.

"If it makes a difference, I did it all for a good reason." It flew through his parted lips before he had a chance to stop it; Kurt's eyebrow shot higher up his forehead. "I mean...I just...I'm...Like the Beast, you know? From that Disney movie?"

The smile that had tugged on his lips broke out now, small, but bright. Dave had always loved Kurt's smile. "The Beast was misunderstood, Karofsky."

"That's what I am."

"That's what people say when they don't like who they are." The words seemed to echo; Dave rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to pressure the aching feeling in his head away. Kurt used his pinkie to shove a copy of _Oedipus Rex_ across the table. "Read two chapters a night, Karofsky, or I'll force you to dress in drag."

Dave decided not to point out that there was absolutely _no way_ Kurt could force him to do _anything_. He lifted a tired hand and flipped through the thin book with his thumb. "This isn't a book. It has...weird things...What the hell is a 'strophe'?"

"The first of a pair of stanzas of alternating form on which the structure of a given poem is based."

"English, Hummel?"

"Kurt."

"English, Kurt?" He liked the way Kurt's name rolled off his tongue.

"It's the first part of a poem."

"So Oh-de-pus is _poem_?"

"It's a play." He said matter-of-factly, tapping the cover with a long, thin finger. Dave sighed.

"If it's a play, then why the hell am I reading it?"

Kurt sighed and raked a hand through his hair. Dave could see the long explanation building inside him, burning up his throat, but he shook his head once and merely said, "Because you asked for my help, and now I'm helping. Understand?"

Dave nodded, because it was easier than demanding a better answer. He shoved the copy into his backpack and stood up.

A hand grabbed his wrist before he could even take a step toward the door; Kurt's fingers were warm, scorching against Dave's skin, and it made him freeze. "Karofsky, we're not done here."

"Dave."

Kurt pursed his lips. "Please. When I'm ready to call you by your first name, I will."

Dave got that.

Because by calling him by his first name, Kurt was humanizing him.

Made it seem like, despite everything he'd done, he deserved to be regarded by his first name.

Made it seem like they were _friends _or something.

Dave nodded jerkily and pulled his arm out of Kurt's grip, wondering how the countertenor's mere fingers could effect him so much. "It's 3:30. I said I would spend time going over this bullshit until _3:30_."

"Give me five more minutes."

If he asked, Dave would've given him a lifetime.

So he sat down.

"I want you to understand something." Dave looked up, meeting Kurt's eyes. "I want you to understand that I understand."

"What is this, 'repeat yourself' day?"

Kurt plowed on, ignoring him. "I understand why you did the things you did. The shoving, the slushies. I know how secrets can affect you. And I just want you to know...being gay isn't the end of the world, although you seem to find it that way."

Except being gay wasn't really the secret that he was hiding the most.

Except the real secret was something deeper.

Something like "I love Kurt Hummel more than anything and he doesn't even know it".

Kurt's fingers reached over, clasping themselves tightly over Dave's weak hand. "And I think that, maybe, we can be friends."

That feeling, the tight, unbearably uncomfortable feeling suddenly returned.

Because Dave didn't want to be friends with Kurt.

But instead of protesting, he just nodded.

Because being friends was Kurt was better than having no Kurt at all.

...Right?

* * *

**Alright, so. This is my Kurtofsky story. I'm trying out a new style, kind of. And basically, this story is going to consist of heartbroken Dave and oblivious Kurt, and how they become friends and how Dave finally tells him his deepest secret...Or something like that. ;)**

**Reviewwwwwww.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own Glee. :(**

**Please review...it helps with extrinsic motivation.**

* * *

"Do you remember sixth grade? You used to shove me down the swirly slide and block the bottom with cardboard and tree branches."

Dave stretched out his legs as he flipped another page in _Oedipus, _his green eyes locked carefully on the words.

Because as real as everything felt, Dave still couldn't shake the feeling that he was dreaming.

Because there he was, sitting on the rough carpet in the back of the library, with Kurt Hummel chatting about grade school and continuously (and _accidentally_) knocking his expensive Prada boot into Dave's tensed quadriceps as he stretched his skinny-jean clad legs.

The tantalizing task was sending goosebumps riveting up Dave's skin.

"That was Puckerman." He lied, crossing his ankles together in an attempt to move his leg away from Kurt's teasing foot and carefully averting his eyes from Kurt's sexy appendages.

Kurt laced a few fingers through his hair, teal eyes rolling back. "No, Karofsky, it was definitely you. I remember."

The fact that Kurt had remembered _anything_ about him made Dave's stomach clench.

"Aren't you supposed to be teaching me or bossing me around?" He managed evenly, looking over the top of his thin book. Kurt's teal eyes sparked with amusement; Dave tried not to pee his pants (or worse).

"Appease me for being irresponsible in my duties." His legs curled beneath him; Dave held in a sigh of relief. "Have you figured it out yet?"

Dave dropped his eyes back onto the paper. "No. I would if you'd just let me look at the last - "

"You want to cheat yourself out of the experience of reading an amazing piece of literature?"

"Yes." He received a sharp look of distaste that made him want to immediately take it back. "The last thing I read was Flash comics, alright? I'm not the reading type."

This was, in fact, a lie. Dave read. He finished every Harry Potter book in record time.

He just didn't read old Greek dramas that had names he couldn't even begin to pronounce.

Kurt snatched the book from his hands and closed it with a soft slap; Dave didn't have time to protest. There was a hard look in Kurt's eyes that produced a hard, uncomfortable feeling in Dave's core.

"Jocasta, Oedipus's wife, is actually his mother and all their little children are incestuous bastards. He killed his own father without knowing, and took his place as king. Was that satisfactory enough for you, Mr. Karofsky?"

He swallowed. "Jesus."

"Actually, Apollo. The oracle." Kurt waved the book in front of his face. "He made a prophecy, things happened, Oedipus bonked his wife. Are you happy now?"

There was a silence, during which Dave searched himself to find the right answer and Kurt raised one eyebrow halfway up his forehead, until Dave decided to go with his initial reaction.

"Hell yeah! Give that back! There's no way I won't finish it now."

Kurt let him snatch the Greek tale out of his thin fingers (Dave was careful to avoid all skin-to-skin contact) and stared into his face with a slightly amused, slightly disturbed expression. Dave wriggled uncomfortably under it; he didn't like that look at all.

Because it was like Kurt could see straight into him, like an x-ray.

And Dave Karofsky had a lot to hide.

"Stop looking at me like that." He demanded quietly, thumbing through the pages as an alternative to meeting Kurt's eyes and blushing like an idiot.

"I don't understand you."

That stung, just a little.

Dave confronted his fears about blushing and glanced up, his wide eyes finding Kurt's narrowed ones. "What's not to get?"

The countertenor just shook his head and stood up (giving Dave a very vivid and taunting view of his toned backside). When he reached to grab his bag, Dave spoke up.

"You're leaving." Kurt seemed to bypass the fact that it was a statement; he nodded.

"Glee starts in a few minutes." He held up five long fingers. Dave closed Oedipus.

As Kurt's boots started to make soft tapping noises on the carpet, he sucked in a breath and said loudly, "Are you coming back?"

Kurt shot him a smile.

A wide, toe-curling smile that made Dave's heart jump into his throat.

Because he never thought that Kurt Hummel would smile at him.

* * *

Dave was jealous of spotlights, because they got to stare at Kurt for long periods of time.

He was jealous of Gucci, Armani, and McQueen because the fabric held Kurt tightly, squeezed him, and never let go.

He was jealous of that cherry lollipop, being swirled around inside Kurt's red stained lips, because _God _was that hot.

But mostly, _mostly_, he was jealous of that damn Finn Hudson.

Because Finn got to wrap his arms around Kurt, got to talk to him daily, got to see him when they went home.

Because right at that moment, as Dave sat squished between two idiot football players, Finn's left shoulder was just mildly touching Kurt's, and the countertenor's eyes were lighting up at something Hudson was saying.

Dave wanted Kurt to look at _him _that way.

Someday, maybe he would.

"What the hell are you staring at?" A jock jostled him, narrowed eyes peering in Kurt's direction.

Dave looked down at his sandwich, suddenly losing his entire, ravenous appetite. He shook his head (an answer that always proved to be a conversation and curiosity killer when it came to the football team) and forced his way off the metal bench with his elbows, dragging his uneaten sandwich with him.

He had just shoved it into the trashcan when he caught, just out of the corner of his eye, Kurt's long legs start to trek toward the double doors that led to the parking lot.

Almost without thinking, almost like it was a _reflex_, Dave stuffed his fists into his pockets and stomped after him.

"Skipping out on our study date, Hummel?" He didn't mean for it to come out so harshly; his words mixed with the sharp clipping of the heavy metal door shutting behind him. Kurt, who had previously been fumbling for the correct key on his Gucci keyring.

He snorted and passed a few fingers through his perfect hair. "Hardly. I have yet to miss a session, and I plan to keep it that way."

Dave's eyebrow arched and he forced himself not to beam. "Like me that much?"

"Again...hardly." His lips, still stained cherry red, pulled upward into the smallest of smiles.

There was a silence then, an uncomfortable one, one that made Dave's heart race.

Because Kurt was just looking at him again, just reading his face, just trying to see below the surface.

Dave wished he could read minds. He wanted to know what Kurt was thinking about him, what Kurt saw burning under his skin. He wanted to say something, anything, but his mouth remained clamped, tight, and someone filled the silence for him.

"Hey, homo. Cornered him, Karofsky?"

Dave suddenly felt like someone had doused him in ice water.

The healthy color in Kurt's cheeks drained away.

Azimio clapped Dave on the shoulder, hard, and folded his arms across his chest. "What are we doing to him this time?"

"Can I do it?" It fell out of his mouth just in time; a few players had started to pool around them. Kurt's back was pressed into his fancy car. Dave could see him trying to blindly locate his car key without them noticing; his fingers fumbled past the right one four times before Dave had to look away helplessly.

Azimio clapped him in the shoulder again. "Aim for his face."

Previously, Kurt had managed to repress any emotion on his porcline face, but now, as Dave drew closer, he looked absolutely terrified.

And it stung.

Because Dave kind of thought that maybe, just maybe, Kurt had learned to trust him more than that.

But then again, Dave really couldn't blame him.

So he got _very _close to Kurt, breathing in his soft, coconut smell, and raised his fist.

Kurt's teal eyes pinched closed. He didn't even try to lift his arms, didn't even try to run away. Dave felt a rush of admiration and affection.

He realized that, even if he wanted to, he'd never be able to punch Kurt.

Not that he was going to from the beginning.

His fist connected with the hard metal of Kurt's car, just below his ear. Any idiotic, braindead jock would have taken the think "thunk" for Kurt's head hitting the car; Dave's broad shoulders were blocking their view of the small countertenor. They wooted happily behind Dave.

Kurt opened one eye, peeking out at him.

"It would be better if you screamed."

His eyes flickered, but he opened his stained lips and let out a heart-clenching wail.

"Hold your nose, like it's bleeding."

One dainty hand came up (the tips of his fingers brushed Dave's chest as they did) and covered his button nose. Dave leaned closer, his eyes closing when he felt Kurt's chest pressing into his, and whispered into the shell of his ear, "Now fall to your knees, alright?"

"These are Gucci pants, Karofsky." His breath brushed against Dave's neck. The jock tried to steady himself.

"Just do it, Kurt, unless you actually want me to hit you."

Kurt sent him a glare that made his heart flutter, and dropped dramatically onto the pavement, still holding his nose. Dave stumbled back a few steps and pretended to nurse his knuckles. Azimio punched him proudly in the arm.

"Nice one! That'll teach you, you little fag."

Dave bit the inside of his cheek to keep from beating the daylights out of his so-called friend; once they left, once they got bored, Kurt would be safe.

And at that moment, that was all that really mattered.

* * *

"I appreciate what you did today, David."

He wasn't sure what to be more surprised about: the fact that Kurt had finally called him David, or the fact that the countertenor's warm palm was pressed into his library was nearly empty, but, in habit, Dave glanced around twice before he reacted at all.

The jock dropped his pencil into the spine of his math book and glanced up, meeting Kurt's teal eyes."No problem."

Kurt's hand slipped off his arm and the warmth from it disappeared. Dave wanted nothing more than to grab it again, interlace their fingers, and never let him go.

Instead, though, he picked up his pencil and tapped it against his text book, eyes dropping to the paper. "I need a break from English crap. My Algebra grade has dropped below a sixty-two."

"Is there any subject you're _good_ at?" There was a shuffle, the soft squeal of a chair being pulled out from under the table, and Kurt's fingers returned to snatch the text from under his nose.

He didn't even have to think about it. "History."

"The blandest and easiest of subjects. Go you, David."

Dave watched Kurt's mouth tick upward, watched his fingertips slip over the glossy page filled with formulas and equations. "You got a seventy-five on our last American History test, Kurt."

His teal eyes flicked up, eyebrows following. He shook his head. "What have you been doing, stalking my grades?"

"No!" He protested loudly, sending curious looks their way. Kurt's mouth widened into an affectionate sneer, but he dropped the subject and shoved the book back at Dave.

"Math is not part of the deal here, so I'm going home to help Finn with chores before his mother castrates him for putting them off so long." He stood up and swung his bag over his shoulder, shooting Dave a short smile that, though beautiful, could not shake away that jealous feeling in his core at the words "help" and "Finn".

The jock bent his head over his text book without saying goodbye (childish, he knew, but Kurt wouldn't even notice anyway). He waited for footsteps, for Kurt's sharp boots on the library floor, but instead, a piece of paper was shoved on top of number twenty-three.

When he unfolded it, there was a seven digit number scrawled in bright, sparkly blue ink, with the words "_if you need help_" printed carefully below it.

When he looked up, Kurt was gone.

When he finally had the courage to put the number in his phone, he put it under "Mr. Perfect".

When he got home and fell into bed, he couldn't help but feel _incredibly happy_, for the first time in what felt like a million years.

Because finally, _finally_, things were starting to look up.


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own Glee. :(**

**Please review...it helps with extrinsic motivation.**

* * *

Dave stuck his hands under the cold water and brought them up to try to press away the heavy bags under his eyes.

He'd barely slept at all. Tossing and turning, he couldn't stop himself from snatching his phone and scrolling down his contacts to "Mr. Perfect".

Kurt.

He had shoved his phone under his pillow, shrugging off the feeling that, if he closed his phone, the contact would magically disappear, and he would lose Kurt's number forever.

He told himself that was stupid.

But the next morning, his fist was wrapped tightly around the thin Motorola, and Kurt's number was open on the screen.

He shook his head and stomped out of the bathroom, haphazardly checking his watch for the eighth time in ten minutes (which had, unfortunately, become a habit; he had started to count down the hours until his tutoring session began) and pushing his way through the throng of students trying to avoid the clutches of History class.

He managed his way down the hall and turned the corner, intent on heading to the gym, when he heard a very soft "David".

Whispered, nearly growled, and a thin, pale hand reached out, snagging Dave's wrist in the long fingers, and Dave was suddenly being dragged into a pitch dark broom closet.

Turpentine and dust filled his nose; he fought the urge to sneeze as, despite the darkness, the hand around his wrist slipped away.

"Kurt?"

He let his own hand, clammy from nerves, reach out into the black; there was a little gasp as his fingers grazed against a lean, heaving chest.

Goosebumps erupted on Dave's skin when he realized _he could hear Kurt breathing. _

Which meant, theoretically, that he was extremely close.

"Kurt, are you okay?"

There was a little sigh (Dave couldn't tell if it was exasperated or happy) and two fists clutched at the front of his shirt, dragging his face downward. "Not really, David. Not at all."

"What's...What's wrong?" He could feel Kurt's hot palms through his shirt. He could feel Kurt's breath, ghosting over his face, making his hands shake. He could feel Kurt move just then, pulling them flush together. He felt every curve, every line, every little breath that made Kurt's diaphragm heave.

"You."

Dave let his eyes fall shut.

"Make."

Kurt's lips tickled his jaw line; Dave bit back a groan.

"Me."

A hand smoothed down his Letterman jacket, making Dave wonder if Kurt could feel the butterflies in his stomach, the fast pace of his heart beating through his chest.

"Crazy."

His hands dove under Dave's shirt, hot fingers sliding down every notch in his spine.

Hips rolled forward involuntarily; Dave felt his cheeks flush, but Kurt let out a little gasp against the jock's skin that made him moan.

Kurt's lips stayed far away from Dave's.

Too far.

A hand snaked down; a finger tapped his belt buckle, the sound ringing through the dark closet. Dave bent his head, wanting to taste Kurt's skin, his full lips, but the countertenor moved away, and Dave's kiss landed on the air.

He felt teeth nip at his ear, the hand at his belt quickly working the prong out of worn leather, and Kurt's symphony voice, rough with lust, growling, "Tell me you want it."

He could only groan.

"Tell me you want it, David."

The hand dipped into his jeans.

Dave tucked his head into the soft nape of Kurt's neck, breathing in his coconut scent._ "_I just want _you."_

_"What was that, Mr. Karofsky?" _

And very suddenly, Kurt sounded more like his English teacher than a symphony. _  
_

His elbow slipped off his desk, and he was jolted unceremoniously into embarrassing reality. He blinked, rubbing carefully at his tired eyes, and managed a hurriedly muttered "sorry" that seemed to suffice.

He didn't dare look down at his lap; instead, he awkwardly tugged his tee shirt lower, over the tent in his jeans, and looked uncomfortably in Kurt's direction.

Only to find the countertenor examining him with a raised eyebrow and curious expression. He lifted his fingers (the long fingers, Dave realized with a core-jerking thought, that had just been - in dream world - slinking down his _pants_) and waved his thumbs around as though he was air-texting.

Seconds later, Dave felt his phone, tucked carefully in his left pocket, vibrate.

_David, I thought we talked about sleeping in class. _

He looked up from the screen and met Kurt's clear, teal eyes. He felt like texting him everything.

Everything, everything, everything.

But he settled for: "_sry. got like no sleep. tutring after?" _

And watched with bated, heavy breath as Kurt tried to shimmy his thin Motorola out of his skin-tight jeans.

The countertenor never typed back; he just gave Dave a sharp nod over his shoulder and raised his hand to answer a question that Dave definitely hadn't been listening to.

* * *

"What were you dreaming about?"

Dave could feel Kurt's shoulder just slightly touching his. He straightened his back against the bookshelf and tried to steady his heart; it was beating so quickly that he was sure Kurt could hear it pounding against his chest. "I don't remember my dreams."

"No, you just don't want to admit to the fact that you were having a sex dream." Kurt's cheeks turned pink, just slightly. Dave wanted to kiss the color away, but he just flipped another page in _Oedipus_ and focused on keeping a straight face.

"You're a pervert, Kurt Hummel." He managed, forcing his mouth into a thin smile. Kurt's eyebrow disappeared into his perfect bangs.

"I'm observant." His teal eyes traveled downward and then flicked back up, his eyebrow twitching knowingly. The jock flushed a bright red. "And you're blushing, David."

And that's how things went on between them.

Kurt would notice something, something that no one else ever noticed about Dave, and the jock would feel his heart flutter and his face would turn bright red. The countertenor never failed to surprise him.

It took Dave another week to finish Oedipus.

Only a _week_.

He thought maybe his motivation came solely from Kurt, who quizzed him as he read aloud and texted him every night to make sure he had finished a canto.

Maybe it was the way Kurt's teal eyes stayed trained on his face as he read, or maybe it was the way he grinned, just slightly, whenever Dave stumbled over a word.

When he had finally read the last line, though, when everything was over, Kurt just plucked the thin text out of his hands and stood up to walk away.

"Hey!"

He turned to glance over his shoulder, teal eyes flashing in Dave's direction. "I promised to teach you _Oedipus, _David, not the whole Library of Alexandria."

The jock opened his mouth to protest, to say anything just to keep Kurt near him, but the countertenor readjusted the bag on his shoulder and said over him, "If you want to hang out, David, you have to _ask_. I refuse to let you use literature as an excuse to talk to me. If you want to be my friend, you'd better just admit it."

And promptly, before Dave could react at all, sashayed away.

* * *

The first time he saw Kurt's room, he wondered if it was possible for a _room_ to look so much like a _person_.

Because Kurt's room was perfect.

It smelled like coconut, like Kurt's skin, and everything just seemed to _work. _

Just seemed to fit together in a way that only Kurt could achieve.

Dave took a deep breath. He hoped that if he breathed in hard enough, if he filled his lungs long enough, the Kurt's scent, that signature coconut, would stay implanted within him forever.

"Did you just sniff the air, David?"

He looked around just in time to see Kurt drag his heavy (designer) sweater over his head. The (designer) tee shirt beneath it rode up, flashing a little line of pale skin that made Dave want to grab him and rip off the expensive material.

Because, really, something as beautiful as Kurt shouldn't be covered all the time.

Kurt didn't seem to agree, though, because his shirt stayed where it was. He didn't notice Dave staring at him; he perched lightly on the edge of his white leather couch and patted the cushion next to him. "We should talk."

"About what?" He set himself on the cushions carefully and hoped that Kurt didn't notice when their knees brushed.

"About - "

There was a thump as Kurt's bedroom door was shoved open and that _damn _Finn Hudson, wearing only a pair of basketball shorts and carrying a huge stack of DVDs, burst into the room. "You left all these musicals on _top _of my X-Box _again_! I could barely carry them all the way up - "

His (gross, in Dave's opinion) chocolate eyes found the jock sitting idly against the white cushions.

"Karofsky." His name sounded like a cuss word on Finn's tongue. The Quarterback lifted an eyebrow and shifted the DVDs in his arms. "In my house. Sitting on Kurt's couch. With Kurt."

"Please do _not _flip a shit, Finn."

He looked like he wanted to yell or cry or punch something. His sickeningly handsome face was distorted with all types of different emotions; the DVDs in his arms swayed dangerously. Kurt stood and used his thin arms to sweep them from Finn's hands.

"We're...He's had a change of heart, Finn. We're kind of...We're kind of like really awkward friends."

Dave was sure he wasn't supposed to hear that last part; Kurt's voice was lowered to a soft whisper, just loud enough for the idiot Quarterback to hear him, and just loud enough to carry all the way back to Dave's awaiting ears.

Finn nodded and pressed a hand into Kurt's shoulder.

Dave managed to feel even_ worse _about himself.

Because Finn felt like he had to _protect _Kurt from him.

"You can go." Kurt reassured him, his feathery fingers tapping his stepbrother on the bare expanse of his back. Dave looked down at his feet until he heard the door snap shut."Sorry. He's been extra protective ever since...Well. Anyway."

There was a silence while Dave tried to think of things that would fit into that sentence.

_Ever since we became brothers._

_Ever since we became friends._

_Ever since I realized you were a monster.  
_

_Ever since we f-  
_

"We should talk."

Dave shifted on the couch and watched Kurt pace across his bedroom, one hand at his mouth, smoothing over his lips as the wheels in his head turned at a pace that Dave just couldn't keep up with.

"We're friends, aren't we?"

"I guess."

"And friends help each other, right?"

"I...guess?"

Kurt's blue eyes were clear when they met Dave's again. Clear and intense and beautiful, and Dave just couldn't look away.

"Will you help me with something, David?"

"Yes."

There's a moment when they just look at each other, both of them trying to read the emotions under the surface, and then Kurt crossed the room at such a fast pace that Dave barely registered he was moving, and he's climbing into Dave's lap and suddenly, very suddenly...

Kurt Hummel is kissing him with such passion that Dave nearly passes out.

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

**I don't own Glee. :(**

* * *

Dave lost himself.

It was almost immediate; his hands clutched at the front of Kurt's shirt, dragging him closer, needing to feel the countertenor against him.

He could taste Kurt's lips; they were warm and smooth under his.

He can feel Kurt's fingers digging hard into the back of his neck, feel them snake up and tangle into his hair.

He can smell that coconut, that tantalizingly beautiful smell, and it invades his nose.

This time, though, it was real.

Everything was real.

The little noise Kurt make when Dave's hands clench on his thighs.

The way Kurt shudders at his touch.

Everything, everything, everything was real.

And that was scary.

So Dave does what any terrified teenager with Kurt Hummel in his lap would do: he stood quickly, knocking Kurt onto the floor with a gracefully thump, and stumbled unceremoniously toward the door, saying loudly, "What the hell. What the hell. What the HELL. What the _hell._"

It wasn't even a question. From the floor, Kurt yelled, "Karofsky, shut the fuck up!" and his mouth clamped shut. His feet stopped their progression toward the door. He just stood, dumbfounded, with one trembling hand on the doorknob.

"Sit down."

He does what he's told, but his knees knock together as he lowers himself back onto the couch.

Kurt was still sitting on the floor, but his knees were pulled up to his chest, arms hugging them like they were his only anchor. He looked so vulnerable, so alone, so _broken_ that Dave wanted to hold him and never let him go again.

He doesn't, though.

"You called me Karofsky."

"I'm aware."

"Sorry."

"Yeah."

"Really."

"Okay."

"Have I totally ruined everything?"

"No."

He didn't believe him. Not in the slightest.

Not even when Kurt untangled himself and crawled, hands and knees, to perch carefully on the couch beside him.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing." A red blush started to creep up his neck, and Dave had a moment of complete euphoria when he realized that he, David Karofsky, managed to make Kurt Hummel blush.

"I don't know what else to say." The truth spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it; the corner of Kurt's mouth arched up into the smallest of smirks. "You freaked me out."

"So you don't find me attractive."

"You're fucking sexy." This time, he clapped a hand over his mouth and Kurt laughed, out loud and clear. "I can't believe I just said that."

"I'm sexy, but you don't want to kiss me." He sounds confused, but his eyes were lucid. Dave looked down at his hands.

"I do want to kiss you." He could almost see Kurt raising a skeptical eyebrow; he heard the fabric of his shirt crinkle as he crossed his arms. "I want to hold you and touch you and _fucking _hear y-"

He felt a smooth hand start to rub circles into his back. The gesture, the warmth of Kurt's hand, the taste of his lips that still lingered on Dave's tongue...

Everything just became _too much. _

So Dave lifted his head and met Kurt's clear eyes again, looked far into them, and tried, very, very hard, to resist.

But he couldn't.

So he takes Kurt's face gently in his hands, thumb smoothing over the soft, porcelain skin of his flushed cheek, and kisses Kurt's warm lips as gently as he possibly can.

It's long and soft and so completely _pure _that Kurt doesn't seem to remember that he's supposed to _breathe. _Dave reminds him by shattering whatever moment he had tricked himself into thinking they were having, because God knows Kurt Hummel wasn't about to have a _moment _with Dave Karofsky.

"So this is what you need help with."

Kurt's eyes are still closed.

Dave's hand moves down to smooth along the columns of his throat, following every line, every silky feature, every dip, every bone.

"You want this."

Kurt's eyes are still closed.

Dave presses a hard kiss into his collarbone.

"You want _passion." _

Kurt's eyes are still closed, but his breathing his heavier. It flows through his parted lips, ghosts over Dave's face.

Dave wonders if Kurt can feel his knees shaking.

"I'll help you, Kurt."

His eyes open.

Dave thinks they're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

* * *

Dave was having a crisis.

Because what, exactly, did Kurt expect him to _do? _

Text him? Call him? Not call? Not text?

And if, for a second, Dave gained a little bit of courage, what _ever would they talk about _if he actually called?

He thought that things went well, despite his minor break down.

He thought that things would go _well._

But he hadn't heard from Kurt in over twenty four hours, and Dave was not the type of person that liked to be kept waiting.

He sighed and tossed his phone across the room.

It slipped across the floor with a few sharp clangs and disappeared under a bookshelf. He wondered if he should just leave it there.

It wouldn't make a difference. Kurt wasn't about to text _him_.

He probably gave out his number often.

Because Kurt was beautiful and talented and likeable and people _wanted _his number.

Still, Dave reminded himself, he hadn't asked for it.

He hadn't even hinted that he wanted it.

So maybe Kurt had _wanted _to give it to him?

He dove after his phone with fumbling fingers and retrieved it after a few failed groping attempts. And before he could stop himself, he typed out a quick _hey need help w/ jane eir…meet in libry and we need to tlk_ and pressed send.

Minutes later, slow, antagonizing minutes, a _New Text Message from Mr. Perfect_ lit up his screen.

He felt his heart clench in his chest, he felt his muscles tense, he felt butterflies explode in his stomach as his thumb pressed the little green button.

_*Eyre._

He laughed.

Because that was so classically _Kurt. _He pulled himself upright and headed for the door, but his phone vibrated again in his fingers.

Swallowing, he peered at the name and tried to keep from throwing up.

_New Text Message from Mr. Perfect_

He punched at his phone and read carefully.

_Not the library. My house. Meet me there in twenty. _

And very suddenly, Dave got the feeling that they wouldn't be studying at all.

* * *

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**More to come.  
**


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